


Dirty Pop

by SmileAndASong



Category: Marvel, Marvel Ultimate Universe, Marvel Ultimates
Genre: 2000s, Blow Jobs, Boyband, First Time Blow Jobs, Fluff and Humor, Getting Together, Happy Ending, Humor, Jealous Steve Rogers, M/M, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-11
Updated: 2019-03-11
Packaged: 2019-11-12 06:58:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18006044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SmileAndASong/pseuds/SmileAndASong
Summary: It’s 2002, Tony invites Steve out to a boy band concert, and Steve just doesn’t get it.What could possibly be so alluring about five flamboyant men dancing around in skin-tight clothing?





	Dirty Pop

**Author's Note:**

> So I love the early Ultimates canon and how shamelessly it references what was its then contemporary, and I really wanted to write a (somewhat self-indulgent) fic where I got to do the same!
> 
> This fic is set somewhere in between Ultimates 1 and 2, specifically in the spring of 2002. I actually did an embarrassing amount of research to make sure that all of my pop culture references fit within that time setting, and to my knowledge, they all do! It may read a bit odd if you are not American or are not familiar with early 2000s trends, so if anything seems weird, just assume it's some sort of pop culture reference or a poor attempt at humor by me. 
> 
> Thanks to brokeneisenglas for the beta and for putting up with how insufferably annoying I was during the writing process for this nonsense.
> 
> The title is taken from the song "Pop" by NSYNC.

“You want me to go to a _what_?” Steve asked, leaning against the doorway of his apartment, arms crossed tightly against his chest.

“An NSYNC concert,” Tony repeated exactly as he had said it before, like Steve would somehow get it this time around.

“I don’t know what that means.” Steve’s face scrunched up tightly with distaste. “And frankly, I don’t know if I want to find out more.”

“They’re a band, I assumed the word ‘concert’ would imply that much. You had to have had concerts back in your day. Frank Sinatra and all those fat cats on the sax, right?” Tony said smugly, visibly trying — and failing — to stifle back a laugh.

“I know what a concert is, Tony,” Steve said, huffing. “But I don’t know...that band, whatever they’re called. I don’t listen to any modern music, it’s all garbage.”

“And have you actually listened to any modern music to make this conclusion?” Tony questioned dubiously.

“Yes, actually, I have,” Steve said defensively, and it actually wasn’t a lie. He had tried, once, back when he had first bought his radio.

Steve loved his radio; even if it was modern and digital, remarkably small and compact, and came loaded with more stations than he knew what to do with, it was still a radio. It was something that he actually knew and understood. Familiarity was a sensation that was growing increasingly foreign to Steve, so he valued any chance he got to experience it. 

But while the radio itself was familiar, the first taste of music that Steve had gotten from it certainly was not: People talking far too quickly to comprehend what they were saying; young men that sounded like they hated their fathers aggressively screaming over thunderous drums; gender ambiguous teenagers whining their way through bombastic love ballads; rugged sounding men also whining their way through bombastic love ballads, but with a more forceful use of the guitar.

None of those genres appealed to Steve, unsurprisingly, and once he discovered a station that specialized in 1930’s and 1940’s music — somewhat rudely dubbed the ‘oldies station’ — he never ventured outside of it. 

“What makes you think I would like—” Steve paused. “—what are they called again? Be Pink?”

“That’s NSYNC, darling,” Tony corrected, an amused look on his face. “And no, I didn’t take you to be a fan. I hate to break it you, but you actually weren’t my first choice in a date for tonight.”

“Who was then?” Steve demanded, eyes narrowing. “And why aren’t they going to see Sink Me?”

“NSYNC,” Tony corrected once again. “It was supposed to be dear Jan accompanying me to the concert. I was actually on my way to pick her up when she sent me a text about how she found herself a last minute date tonight instead.”

“Oh,” Steve mumbled, frowning, but only slightly. “Well good for her.”

Tony raised an eyebrow. “You’re taking this rather well.” 

Steve scoffed, waving a dismissive hand. “She’s happy and far away from Hank; that’s all that matters to me.” Steve thought that maybe he was taking this _too_ well. Yeah, he and Jan had only gone on three considerably awkward dates, but shouldn't he be slightly torn up about her already dating?

“And to think she turned down all of this charm." Tony teased, letting out a quick snicker. “Now let’s get going, the concert starts soon!”

“What makes you think I’m going to just drop everything and come out with you?” Steve grunted.

“Because you don’t have anything better to do,“ Tony began. “And no, watching tonight’s episode of Survivor is not ‘something better to do’.”

Steve’s cheeks tinted pink. How did Tony know about his shameful Survivor addiction? “Well, I was thinking of going over to Bucky’s to see if he—”

“—is enjoying the date he’s taking his wife on tonight? You wouldn’t want to be a third wheel, now would you?” Tony pulled out his PDA, dangling it in front of Steve. “I already took the liberty of e-mailing him on the way here. I knew you’d try and use him as an excuse.”

Bucky had an e-mail? Steve didn’t even have an e-mail. 

Steve’s brow furrowed in contemplation as he tried to contrive another believable excuse, any excuse, but he knew Tony would just see through them all like he always did. The man could read Steve like the front page of the New York Times. “Fine," He begrudgingly agreed. "But they had better be good.”

Tony smirked, seeming pleased with himself. “Oh, they’re good alright…” It sounded like Tony was implying something — something suggestive — but Steve didn’t think anything odd of it. This was Tony Stark, practically everything that came out of his mouth was some varying degree of obscene. 

They made their way out of Steve’s apartment building and toward Tony’s car. Steve had anticipated the usual: some brand new, brightly colored, sleek, sportscar. Instead, there was a metal behemoth that took up a significant majority of his block, and done up in a garish red and gold color scheme.

Steve sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Please tell me this is not yours.”

“Of course it’s mine. Well, technically, it’s something of a loaner. I mean, who _owns_ a limo?” Tony said, like that was the most humiliating thing one could do. “It’s an H2 Stretch Hummer. These aren’t supposed to even be on the market until next year, but GM sent me this beauty so I could help them promote it. And look—” Tony knelt down beside one of the tires and whirled the rim, spinning it like a plastic top found in the bottom of a fucking Cracker Jack box. “—Spinning rims!”

“The last time I saw tires this big, they were on a 1944 Willys MB Jeep and running over Nazis,” Steve said, gruffly, and he stared at the tires like they were something vulgar. “And the rims, they didn’t...well, they didn’t do _that_. What’s the point anyway, I don’t get it.”

“What’s the point? They spin, that’s the point! Weren’t you watching?” Tony gave the rim another swivel for good measure before he rose to his feet, shaking off the nonexistent dirt from his suit. He opened the door to the backseat for Steve, grinning. “After you.”

Steve took a deep breath and reluctantly clamored into the dimly lit limousine. It’s not like he had anything better to do, he thought to himself, as the beastly car pulled away from his street and off to the uncertainty that was an NSYNC concert.

XXXXX

There was a sea of reporters and flashing lights waiting for them once they arrived at Madison Square Garden. Steve was taken aback by their presence, even though at this point, he really shouldn’t be. Tony was already quite the celebrity and now that the Ultimates had proven successful, Steve was, too. 

But unlike Tony, Steve did not have nearly as much experience — or as much patience — for the overzealous press, who bombarded him and Tony with question after question:

“What are your thoughts on President Bush’s foreign policy?”

“Spider-Man is getting a motion picture next month, when can we expect to see one about the Ultimates?”

“Who do you want to win The Bachelor, Amanda or Trista?”

“You’re here at NSYNC’s concert, does this mean you don’t support Backstreet?”

Steve barely had time to process anything that he was asked, whereas Tony answered each question quickly and smoothly: “No comment on politics, darling, that’s tacky.”; “No motion picture deal yet, but we are open to it.”; “Amanda, she’s a lovely lady and deserves Alex Michel.”; ”We fully support Backstreet, too, though I will go on the record and say that I do prefer NSYNC.”

After he seemed to have his fair share of humoring the press, Tony took Steve by the hand and whisked him inside the arena, where Steve immediately felt out of place. He and Tony were clearly not the target demographic for NSYNC; that seemed to be women, ages 16 to 35. They were all dressed in similar fashions — brightly colored tube tops, low rise jeans that left absolutely nothing to the imagination, assorted colorful clips in their hair — and some were carrying homemade signs that said things like ‘MARRY ME JC’ or ‘TIMBERLAKE TRAMP’.

There were a few men sprinkled throughout, but they looked very different than Steve — small and thin with feminine haircuts, and wearing the same tight, low hanging jeans that the women were.

Some of the men were holding hands with one another. Some of the men were _kissing_ one another. 

Steve frowned and looked down at his own hand, still tightly clasped in Tony’s. This was different; Tony was just leading the way to their viewing suite. This was okay...right? 

They soon made it up to the private deck and stopped at a door labeled ‘16’. Just as they were about to go in, someone from behind them called out Tony’s name.

“Hey!” Tony greeted and he let go of Steve’s hand, walking over to a well-dressed blonde woman. Tony kissed both of her cheeks, and Steve scowled, fists clenching tightly at his side. Who the hell was this? 

“I didn’t know you were going to be here tonight, Tony. You always struck me as more of a Backstreet fan,” She giggled, adjusting her hold on the small dog she was carrying — if the oversized rat in a fluffy dress could even be considered a dog.

Tony chuckled. "Hardly the case, darling, I’m an NSYNC guy through and through. I just can’t get enough of Timberlake, but really, who can?”

Tony and the blonde woman babbled on for a few more minutes about numerous topics that Steve didn’t know anything about — mainly an awful lot of gossip about some woman named Britney — before she eventually excused herself, without so much as acknowledging Steve. Winking at Tony, she slipped into the adjacent suite.

“She shouldn’t have a dog at a concert,” Steve mumbled once the door had shut behind her. “And she also shouldn’t be putting it in clothes either. It’s an animal, not some doll.” 

“And you shouldn’t be worrying so much about my exes,” Tony said bluntly, leading the way into their own suite. “She was just a fling; no need to be jealous, darling.”

Steve snorted and sauntered in behind Tony. “Who said I was jealous? Don’t flatter yourself too much, Stark.” 

The suite was spacious and lavish, with a small buffet of fancy looking hors d’oeurves, a well-stocked bar, an attentive-looking waitstaff, several sleek leather couches, a flat-screen TV that was playing last night’s Mets game, and most importantly, an impressive vantage point of the stage. It was excessive but appropriate for Tony, the man who never did anything half-assed. It was always whole-assed and always with style.

Steve plopped down on one of the couches in the center. “You’ve easily got enough space here for fifty people, and yet you only invited me?”

“I invited Jan, technically,” Tony reminded Steve, joining him on the couch. “And just because I _can_ invite that many people, doesn’t mean I _should_. Being here with fifty other people wouldn’t exactly be very intimate, now would it?”

Intimate? 

“Some refreshments for you gentleman?” A well-timed waitress interrupted, setting down drinks for them: an amber colored liquid for Tony, obviously some sort of liquor, and something alarmingly blue for Steve.

“Hey! What the hell is this, dish soap?” Steve snapped at the waitress. “Are you trying to kill me or something?” 

The waitress shook her head vehemently and slowly backed away from Steve. “It’s only Pepsi, sir!” 

Steve’s wave of anger was quickly replaced with one of bewilderment. He scrutinized the blue liquid, trying to make sense of it. “I don’t get it.”

“It’s Pepsi Blue,” Tony said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. Steve blinked. “It’s a new berry-flavored Pepsi.”

“Oh,” Steve said, but he didn’t look any less confused. “Is it safe to drink something so...blue?”

Tony chuckled. “Of course it’s safe, it’s just a bit of food coloring. If they can put it in Ketchup, then surely it’s fine in soda, too.”

“Ketchup? Why would they-” Steve stopped speaking when the lights around him abruptly lessened and the thousands of other voices amplified. The concert was finally starting.

Steve wasn’t proud to admit it, but he was actually the slightest bit excited. The hype had been built up so much, what with all the praise Tony kept giving the band, how full the Garden was, and how loudly the crowd screamed for them. People hadn’t screamed half as loud when the Chitauri invaded, a literal matter of life and death.

But that tiny bit of hope Steve had for a good show abated within the first few seconds of the band’s first song — if they could even be considered a band. They didn’t even play instruments, they just danced in synchronized meticulously crafted choreography. Steve might have been able to regard their moves as skillful, if not for the horrid song they were singing as they danced. It was one of those whiney, bombastic pop songs that the twenty-first century was so fond of, but with an insufferable beat that he knew would be stuck in his head long after the concert had ended.

 _This_ was what everyone was screaming at the top of their lungs for? 

Steve shifted his attention back to Tony, who seemed quite engrossed in the performance. “You can’t possibly consider this music.”

“It’s not that bad. Something of a guilty pleasure, I suppose.” Tony shrugged, only half looking at Steve as he spoke. “Besides, it’s not like anyone really goes to NSYNC concerts for the music.”

Steve arched a brow. “Why would you go to a concert if not for the music?” 

Tony winked. “Sometimes it’s nice just to take in the view.”

Take in the view? What could possibly be so alluring about watching five handsome men parade around in skin-tight clothing, grinding their hips and thrusting their — _oh_.

For the first time tonight, Steve _got it._

He began to watch again, this time more intently, his mouth slightly agape, his eyes locked onto each and every move they made. It was so bizarre. They looked masculine in appearance — wearing tight tank-tops that accentuated their well-defined, muscular physiques — but moved in a way that was so poised and so graceful that it came across feminine. The dichotomy between the two was so fascinating, so alluring, and it refused to relinquish its hold on Steve’s attention.

“Enjoying the view?” Tony’s voice beckoned Steve out of his trance and he jolted in his seat. How long had he been staring? 

“Of course not,” Steve retorted, his voice unexpectedly hoarse. He cleared his throat. “It’s like watching a bunch of trained circus monkeys.”

Tony smirked, glancing ostentatiously down at Steve’s crotch. “Well, I didn’t know monkeys were such a turn-on for you. You never struck me as the furry type.”

Steve looked perplexed until he realized what Tony was staring at — his own cock, erect, and tenting through his blue jeans. He put his hands over it and frantically searched for something, anything, to conceal it. “It’s not like that! I’m not...they’re just...I was thinking about-”

“Calm down, darling, it’s alright.” Tony placed what should be a comforting hand on his thigh, though it sat far too high to be innocent. “I know you’re not really gay.”

“Of course you know that, because I’m _not_!” Steve snapped defensively.

“Yes, yes, just hear me out,” Tony cooed, his hand rubbing small, soothing motions into Steve’s thigh. “You’re not really gay — you’re just gay for NSYNC. Have you ever heard of that phrase?” Steve shook his head. “So here’s how it works: you’re not really gay in that you like _all_ men. There’s just a select handful that you’re attracted to, that you’d be willing to ‘go gay for’. A few little exceptions, if you will.” 

Steve looked at Tony skeptically. “And this is...a thing that a lot of people do?”

“Sure! Take me for example, I’m straight, but I’m gay for Justin Timberlake.” Tony pointed at the man with a buzzcut dancing in the center. He was Steve’s favorite, too. “Now you tell me a celebrity that you’re gay for.”

Steve pointed at the guy in NSYNC with the frosted tips. “That guy.” The words came out quickly and they were far easier to say than Steve expected them to be. He felt lighter, freer, and like he wanted to admit more to Tony. 

Like he wanted to _do_ more to Tony.

“We’ve already established that you’re gay for the band, darling, so pick someone else,” Tony encouraged. 

“I don’t know, it’s not like I keep up with celebrities,” Steve murmured. “I’ve got better things to do.”

“Aw, come now, everyone has a favorite celebrity,” Tony scooted closer to Steve, almost in his lap at this point. “I certainly do, and he’s one that I’m most definitely gay for.”

“Who is it?” Steve inquired, his hands twitching with a desire to touch the hips that were now brushing against his.

Tony leaned in and whispered his answer into Steve’s ear, like it was a precious secret. “Why Captain America, of course…”

“You’re...gay for me?” Steve asked faintly.

“I’m _very_ gay for you,” Tony breathed into Steve’s ear.

Steve’s mouth quivered, struggling to form the question that he so desperately wanted to ask. “Can I...be gay for you, too?”The words came out as pathetic as Steve felt. He wanted nothing more than to flee like a cowardly French soldier before Tony could answer, before Tony could laugh in his face and call him some deserving gay slur.

But then Tony took a hold of his chin and forced Steve to look at him. And he smiled at Steve, too.

Steve's breath caught and his doubts melted away, for this wasn't a trademarked Tony Stark smile, no, it was personal and sincere. It was a smile not for the paparazzi, nor men with girly haircuts, nor women who regarded dogs as accessories, but for Steve and Steve alone. 

“Of course you can. I would be absolutely honored.” Tony said, his voice gentle and soft. The earnest look fell from his face and was replaced with something far more risque. “And now that we’ve established that we’re mutually gay for one another, would you like some assistance?” Tony’s hand skirted up the few remaining inches and he cupped Steve through his jeans.

Steve bit back the moan, but he didn’t shy away from Tony’s hand. He pressed himself into it willingly. “Right here? Shouldn’t we do this stuff — the gay stuff — at home?”

“And leave before they do Bye Bye Bye? I don’t think so!” Tony said, affronted. “It’s a private booth, we’ll be fine. And seeing as you scared off the waitress, I don’t think she’ll be bothering us either.”

“This music is going to kill the mood…” Steve complained.

“Trust me, you’ll find the music much more tolerable with a hand around your dick,” Tony paused, tilting his head. “Or would you prefer lips around it instead?”

"Lips," Steve answered, maybe too quickly, but Tony still obliged and dropped to his knees. He swiftly undid the belt and fly, pulling the fabric of Steve's boxers down under his hard leaking cock. He licked a stripe up his length before taking him fully in his mouth. The plump, warm lips enveloped around him and began to suck just as NSYNC began their next performance — a song that appropriately opened with the word ‘Dirty’.

Steve volleyed between watching Tony, hard at work at his feet, and the band, dancing sensually on the massive stage in front of him. It was all very hot, very stimulating, and _very_ gay. But it was alright, it was all permissible because he wasn’t _really_ gay — he was only gay for Tony. And maybe NSYNC, too, but mostly Tony. God, _always_ Tony.

As the song's pace sped, Steve felt himself getting close. He could barely hear the lively 'dirty' pop song anymore; he only heard the downright filthy moans that were slipping out from his own mouth, noises he didn't even know he was capable of emitting prior to this moment. Steve's hips hitched shallow thrusts as Tony increased his own speed, drool leaking from the corners of his stretched lips that were wet and red and so fucking pretty. Steve came embarrassingly fast after that, and with a loud shout blended in seamlessly with the screams and cries that filled the arena. 

Tony’s eyes went wide at the somewhat abrupt ending but he didn’t gag or struggle. He swallowed it all, effortlessly, like a champ. Like he had done this before. Had he? Maybe, but Steve didn't entertain the thought any further. 

Instead, he hoisted Tony up on his lap and kissed him, deeply and desperately, the taste of his own come somehow not as repulsive as he'd thought it might be. He wasn’t sure if kissing somehow breached the ‘Gay For’ code but he couldn’t bring himself to care. It felt good, the kind of good that was worth a blow to his already wavering heterosexuality. 

Tony pulled away from the kiss, grinning sheepishly, lips still stained with come and swollen. “Feel better?”

“Best I’ve felt in a long time. Do you think we could maybe...do this again sometime?” Steve bit his lip, looking away. “And...can we maybe keep this between us?”

“Of course! Why I’ll keep it a secret till the day my life is through — this I promise you.” Tony singsonged his words, and Steve rolled his eyes at them. Tony _would_ kill a tender moment by quoting the vapid boy band lyrics that Steve could now unfortunately recognize. But there was a sort of charm to the absurd reference. It was so ridiculous and so very Tony.

“You’re really something, Stark,” Steve said, tightening his hold around Tony’s waist to cuddle him. The rumble of Tony's laugh made him smile, probably wider than he had smiled in sixty some odd years.

Maybe twenty-first-century music wasn’t so bad after all.


End file.
